by Derek Landy
“We just want to be left alone,” said Caisson.
“Of course,” Creed responded. “That’s the most any of us can wish for, isn’t it? A quiet life? As I said, people talk to me, so please don’t be alarmed by the things I know. But if I may offer some unsolicited advice? Caisson, you’re never going to be left alone. Not only are you the son of the mighty Mevolent, you are also the killer of the mighty Mevolent.”
Caisson tensed. “How do you know these things?”
“I told you, people talk to me. Information like that, it travels faster than you’d think possible. It’s only a matter of time before it gets out, and once it does you will have as many people wanting you dead as worshipping you.”
The elderly woman stood in front of Caisson. “What do you want, Mr Creed? My husband has just had a lifetime of lies torn open in front of him. I have just escaped from ninety years of confinement. We are both tired, sir, and impatient, and we do not appreciate your riddles.”
“No more riddles, then,” said Creed. “Your lives are in danger. If you proclaim your allegiance to the Church of the Faceless, you will have our full protection, and we will ask nothing else of you.”
“You think we need your help?” Caisson asked softly.
“I do.”
“Mr Creed, we don’t care about the Faceless Ones.”
“But they care about you. They care about all of us.”
Caisson’s lip curled. “That’s not what Mevolent taught.”
“That is true,” said Creed, “which is why I opposed him from the very beginning. Mevolent’s interpretation of the message, his reading of the Book of Tears, is so far from the truth as to be downright lies. The Faceless Ones are not cruel, uncaring gods whose very appearance would turn you insane. They merely have a power we don’t fully understand yet. There are deeper complexities at work here – deeper beauties. All I ask is that you allow me to demonstrate what I mean. Afterwards, you make up your minds. If you can’t see what I’m talking about, you walk away. But if you do … then join me.”
“The son of Mevolent joining your church would steal followers from Serafina,” the elderly woman said.
Creed nodded. “I suppose it would, but I promise that is not my primary motivation.”
“This demonstration,” said Caisson, “what is it? What do you plan to do?”
Creed indicated Temper. “Our guest here has a very particular strand of DNA. One in seven people share this strand, or at least a variation of it. I’m going to Activate that strand here, tonight, and, if it’s strong enough, it will unlock the Faceless One that is lurking within.”
Temper made more noise, and shook his head, and Caisson frowned at him. “He’s going to turn into a Faceless One?”
“A hybrid, of Faceless One and human,” said Creed. “If it works.”
The old lady peered closely. Temper tried to catch her eye. “And if it doesn’t work?” she asked.
“Then his face will melt off and his brain will be wiped clean.”
The old woman finally caught Temper’s eye, and shrugged. “OK,” she said. “Let’s see what happens.”
Omen crept through the shadows next to the storage sheds. In the clearing ahead, First Wave stood. They didn’t much look like the instigators of a war.
Colleen and Perpetua huddled together while the others stood apart. Sabre was puking into a barrel, and everyone looked pale, nervous. Terrified, even.
Everyone but Jenan. From his vantage point, Omen could see the look of anxious determination on Jenan’s face. He was looking straight ahead, but at nothing. His lips were moving, ever so slightly, and Omen was seized by the absolute certainty that Jenan was envisioning all the ways he was going to kill people.
But the others … the others weren’t killers. They had maybe deluded themselves into thinking they were, convinced themselves that they were capable of murdering some sailors in their sleep, but the sharp angles of reality were now pushing against these little bubbles. All that was needed, for those bubbles to start bursting, was one final push.
Omen straightened. If he could take out Jenan, fast and without fuss, the others would snap out of it. He knew they would. He’d tell them that it wasn’t too late, that they had committed no crimes, not yet. They could go home. Back to their families, back to Corrival Academy, back to normal life.
All he needed to do was knock Jenan Ispolin the hell out.
He took the first step of a sprint and then sank back into the shadows.
“What are you doing here?” Jenan asked as the remaining Coldheart convicts walked from between the buildings.
Omen shrank even further back.
“Abyssinia sent us,” said one of them, a particularly mean-spirited convict from Birmingham. Omen had seen him pass his cell. Slyboots, he thought his name was. “We’re just back-up, in case you need us.”
“We’re not going to need back-up,” Jenan replied, a little angrily. He was watching his moment of glory begin to fade even before it had started. “They’re a bunch of mortals. They don’t pose a threat.”
Slyboots grinned. “I don’t think Abyssinia is worried about the sailors. I think she’s worried about you lot. Seems to me you don’t much look like a pack of merciless killers.”
There were a few laughs from the ever-growing throng, and Jenan’s face burned.
“Abyssinia has been training us for this,” he said. “She knows what we’re capable of.”
“That one,” Slyboots said, pointing at Sabre, “is pukin’ in a barrel. That doesn’t instil in me an overwhelmin’ sense of confidence.”
“It’s just jitters.”
“Looks a lot like fear.”
Jenan spotted Mr Lilt in the crowd. “Sir,” he said. “Tell him. Tell him this is our mission.”
The convicts all turned to Lilt, who seemed to shrink under their gaze, and didn’t say anything.
“We know this is your mission,” Slyboots said, smiling easily. “We’re merely here as well-wishers, to give you a little encouragement should you need it. Now, with that bein’ said, if you start to screw this up we will immediately and without ceremony take over and butcher this base ourselves.”
Jenan stepped up to him. He was taller, but the convict was sturdier, and he wasn’t quaking with rage.
“This is a First Wave mission,” Jenan said, his voice strangled. “We are the ones who are going to strike a blow for sorcerers everywhere. We are the ones who are going to go down in history as the people who kicked off the war that will change the world. Not you. Not a gang of criminals, who are so inept, so useless, that they were set to spend the rest of their sad, pathetic lives in prison before Abyssinia took pity on them and let them play outside. We are the future. We are your future. Pretty soon, you’re going to be taking orders from us – so I’d advise you to get used to the idea, and back the hell off.”
“Of course,” said Slyboots. “You’re the boss, Mr Ispolin. In fact, we believe in you so much that we wanted to help. Bring out the mortal.”
A sailor, in blue and grey fatigues, came stumbling from the shadows. Two convicts followed, grinning.
“We got you a present,” Slyboots said. “Your first victim. All yours to murder.”
Omen watched as the members of First Wave paled.
“Go on,” Slyboots continued, sneering. “I thought this is what you were trainin’ for.”
“Maybe you should start ’em off,” the other convict said, chuckling.
“No,” Slyboots answered firmly. “This is an honour for the children. For the First Wave. The best and the brightest. Come on, kiddies. Zap him. Set him on fire. Do somethin’. If you can’t kill this one, what chance do you have of killin’ the twenty-six others, lyin’ in their beds?” He walked up to Gall, put a hand on his shoulder. “Go on, my little friend. This is your chance. Start off the slaughter with a bang. No?”
He moved over to Perpetua. “What about you, darlin’? You gonna do it? You gonna smash this pathetic morta
l’s face in? Want me to get you a rock, or do you fancy doin’ it with your bare hands?”
Perpetua bit her lip, trying not to cry. Slyboots grinned again, and moved over to stand between Sabre and Disdain.
“We don’t hear much from you two,” he said. “This is your chance, I reckon. Start us off, get your names out there, build a bit of a reputation. What do you say? No? Too much for you? Ah, don’t worry about it.”
Slyboots took hold of Colleen’s hand, and raised it to point at the sailor. “Here. I’ll help you. How are you at Energy Throwin’, eh? Go on. Give it a go. Aim straight for his head, or straight for his heart. Or, if you wanna be really cruel, you can start with his limbs and work your way in.”
He took his hand away. Colleen’s whole arm was shaking.
She lowered it.
Slyboots shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you, sweetheart. I really am. So that leaves us with Mr Ispolin.” He turned to Jenan. “Now, we all know you can do it, you murderous little psychopath. Lord knows, it’s all you’ve been talkin’ about for the last few months. So here it is. The moment that you’ve been waitin’ for. Your classmates seem to have bottled it. The reality of killin’ is a lot different to the fantasy, isn’t it, my little cherubs? But Jenan here, he knows what’s what. You won’t get a little thing like morality stoppin’ Jenan Ispolin! You know who his father is, right? He’s a big muckity-muck in some Sanctuary or other. But he is nothin’ compared to junior here. Jenan Ispolin is gonna remake the world – and it all starts when he kills this little sailor-boy.”
Jenan had his eyes on the sailor the entire time. Omen watched him step forward, his right hand glowing with energy.
The sailor stared at that hand in horrified amazement. When Jenan raised it, the sailor took a step backwards.
“Do it,” Slyboots said. “Do it, or we’ll have to. You understand? If you little kids can’t handle the awesome responsibility that has been bestowed upon you, then we shall be forced to step in. Either you start the killin’ – or we do. Make up your mind, Jenan.”
The sailor took another step back.
A stream of energy erupted from Jenan’s hand and hit the sailor in the arm, spinning him round, and suddenly the sailor was bolting.
“He’s messed it up,” Slyboots said loudly. “All right, lads and ladies, it’s up to us! Kill ’em all!”
The convicts cheered and started running, and Omen ducked back, barely scrambling behind cover as a few ran by.
He stayed where he was, in the darkness.
Hiding.
“Ah, damn,” he whispered as he got up.
A convict passed and he followed along behind, sneaking between buildings. He didn’t know what he was doing. This was a convicted criminal he was following. Probably a killer. What could he do against a killer?
Omen had to turn back. He had to. So why were his feet moving forward? Stupid feet didn’t know what the hell they were doing, going this way and that, even though his legs were shaking and his heart was hammering and his bladder was full and his skin was way too sensitive. His shirt was scratchy. His left sock had lost most of its elasticity. Everything was horrible and he was going to die.
A figure disengaged itself from the shadows as the convict passed, and hauled him out of sight.
Omen froze.
He waited a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do, then he started forward slowly.
The convict lay in the shadows. Unconscious or dead, Omen didn’t know. Another convict passed ahead of him.
The figure dropped from the roof and the convict crunched underneath him and lay still. Omen ducked down, waited a moment, then peeked out.
It was a man in his thirties, with a beard, wearing black. A shadow fell across him and two convicts ran into Omen’s line of sight. The bearded man met them, grabbed them, spun them and broke them, and when he was done he moved on in a crouch, and Omen lost him.
Omen turned round, went the other way. He wasn’t needed. There was someone else on the scene and they were handling things a lot better than he ever could, so it was time to sit down and hide and wait for back-up.
Footsteps. Movement. A convict in front of him, sneaking into one of the buildings. It was Slyboots. Oh, great. Oh, wonderful.
Slyboots slipped in through a doorway, and there was a cry and a crash from inside. Omen got to the door, took a breath, took another one and ran in.
An office. Filing cabinets and phones. A man in uniform, an officer, on the floor, bleeding from the head. Slyboots standing over him, fire in his hands, ready to kill.
“Stop,” said Omen. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just run at him. Now Slyboots was looking round. Now he was grinning.
“You’re supposed to be locked up.”
Omen squared his shoulders. “I escaped.”
“I can see that. So what are you doin’?”
“I’m going to stop you.”
“From doin’ what?” Slyboots asked. “From killin’ this sailor? Afraid not. I’m gonna kill him, take you back to wherever you’re supposed to be, and then carry on killin’.”
“Get help,” said the officer from the floor.
“Shut it,” said Slyboots, and gave him a kick that knocked him into unconsciousness.
Omen rushed him. Slyboots actually seemed surprised when they collided, but, as Omen struggled against him, he started to laugh. That was infuriating.
Slyboots threw him off and Omen came right back. His fist looped in and caught the convict on the cheek, made him bellow as he backed off. Fury washed across Slyboots’s face and he lunged, and Omen dodged, caught him with a left hook to the ribs and a graceless punch to the back of the head that nearly broke his hand. Slyboots turned and Omen tried to give himself space, but his hip hit the edge of the table and he couldn’t go any further. The punches came then, and Omen ducked what he could and soaked up the rest, and then the air whooshed and Omen flew backwards over the table, hitting the wall and dislodging framed certificates as he fell.
Slyboots grabbed him by the shirt and the hair and hauled him up, then sent a knee crashing into his side.
Omen dropped, gasping for a breath, his muscles in spasm, contracting around his lungs.
Now, a voice in the back of his mind said, would be a perfect time for Auger to arrive.
And that’s when Auger arrived.
He ran in and leaped, and he sailed clear over the table and his knee hit Slyboots in the chest and Slyboots smashed into a filing cabinet. Omen’s brother kicked at Slyboots’s knee and hammered at his neck and, when Slyboots tried to grab him, Auger broke his arm and rammed an elbow into his chin, and Slyboots crumpled.
Auger pulled Omen to his feet. “What did I say about being the hero? Pretty sure I said don’t do it.”
Omen wheezed. “Did you not see me losing that fight?”
“You don’t have to win to be the hero.”
Never came staggering in, her tired eyes widening when she saw Omen. “You’re alive,” she said.
Omen frowned. “I’m fine. Are you OK?”
She looked dreadful as she came over, pale and perspiring. She hugged him.
“She’s had to do a lot of teleporting,” Auger said. “She’s pretty much wiped.”
She broke off the hug, and thumped Omen, then hugged him again.
“Ow,” Omen said, confused.
“She’s angry with you,” Auger explained. “We were off, y’know, stopping some bad guy from doing some bad things, and suddenly I hear you in my head, and then nothing. So we get back to school and no one knows where you are, but no one’s worried because it’s you and they all think you’re just wandering around.”
“Like a ridiculous puppy,” Never mumbled, collapsing into a chair.
“Exactly. I try to get in touch with you but I can’t make contact and … well, here we are now. What’s the situation?”
“There are thirty or so Coldheart prisoners here to kill everyone,” Omen said.
“Yeah, basically. Who did you bring?”
“Just us.”
Omen frowned. “Not even Kase or Mahala?”
“We didn’t have time to find them.”
“Did you try Skulduggery and Valkyrie?”
“They’re not answering their phones.”
“But have you alerted China, at least?”
“These are good plans,” said Auger. “You stay here with Never and decide who to call. I’m going to try to stop Jenan and his little band of morons, OK?”
Omen frowned. “Is Never asleep?”
Auger checked. “Yep,” he said, and scooped her into his arms. “This has happened before. She’ll be out for a few hours and then wake up starving.” He carried her behind the desk and laid her gently on the floor. “Stay with her, OK?”
“I’m coming with you,” said Omen.
“Dude, it’s not safe.”
“There are too many of them. I’m coming and I’m not arguing about it.”
Auger took a moment. “Fine,” he said. “But stay behind me at all times.”
“I’ll be so far behind you you’ll be wondering why I’m even there, OK? Now let’s go.”
Destrier’s workshop was small and dark and untidy and he was at the centre of it, sitting at a desk, poking at a piece of machinery with a screwdriver.
Skulduggery and Valkyrie walked slowly in.
“Hello,” Skulduggery said.
Destrier looked up, bit his lip, then went back to work.
“You don’t seem too surprised to see me,” Skulduggery said, “even though I was supposed to be in that Eternity Gate for another six days. Was it shoddy workmanship that released me early, or was it something else?”
Destrier shrugged, released his lip and bit it again.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Skulduggery said. “I think you sabotaged your own machine, Destrier. I think you wanted me to get out, because you want me to stop Abyssinia. Am I right?”